[rpoz-29]

In my late teens and early twenties, I rode a bunch. Got married, had kids, sold bike. In my late thirties and early forties, I started riding again taking my sons with me. Sons go off to college, sold bikes. So the other day, my brother, (who races hare scrambles with his 2 youngest boys), finds a champagne deal on a Yamaha YZ250F. I bought it. Wife insists I'll kill myself because I'm now almost fifty-two, and my weight is well....about one pound/cc. So I bring this thing home and show my wife what a great deal it is. "Will it start?", Carol asks. "Sure" I kick down hard on the starter and twisted my right wrist somehow. I felt something snap or crack. (IMG:http://www.frrax.com/rrforum/style_emoticons/default/blink.gif) Honest to God, I thought I broke it. I managed a feeble victorious smile, shut it off and put it in the garage. My wrist is almost healed, but I've had a hard time convincing her that the ACE bandage, and the scent of Ben-Gay has nothing to do with that bike.